


Thank You, Jack Daniel's

by por_queeee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Failed Sex, Humor, M/M, Romance, Supernatural Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thinks that taking Castiel out to the bar is a great idea, mostly because it's pretty damn amusing to see an angel drunk. By the time they're back at the motel and having a little drunken fun, Sam very much regrets taking the motel room next to theirs. </p><p>See author's notes for the kink meme prompt this was meant to fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You, Jack Daniel's

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Supernatural kinkmeme; "I want Castiel and Dean drunk. Stealing traffic signs, swiping other people's drinks, dancing in public, coming home singing drunk - and whatever other antics you can think up. They attempt loud, ambitious sex (much to the disgust of Sam in the next motel room) but ultimately fail and end up in a passed out pile."
> 
> Title taken from "Old Number Seven" by The Devil Makes Three!

Dean’s beginning to think that he should have gotten the angel drunk on his watch a long time ago.

Sure, it had taken about a dozen shots before he’d started to even seem close to tipsy, but as Dean saw it, it was more than worth it. Because this? This is frickin’ awesome. 

Castiel is sitting across from him in the smoke filled booth of the smoke filled bar, brow furrowed in his all too familiar _I-fail-to-understand-humanity_ face. Which, currently, is being leveled at Dean (but hell, what’s new?) He’s still fully trench coated and everything, but his tie’s so loose it’s bordering on ridiculous looking, he’s got a few of his shirt buttons undone, and Dean would bet anything that if he could actually smell anything over what he can only describe as the bar’s “unique skank” that Cas’s breath would smell pretty damn strongly of Vodka.

“Dean,” Castiel begins slowly, and even if he still has that same serious growl it’s at least a bit looser. Dean can’t help but smile, because somehow seeing an incredibly powerful mythical being intoxicated is about the most endearing thing he’s ever witnessed. “Please explain the concept of a ‘prank call’ to me again.”

“Cas, how are you not getting this?” Dean asks with a laugh, taking another swig of his beer. Unlike his angel boyfriend, (and alright, maybe he’s not exactly up to referring to him that way out loud), he’s still only at the “pleasantly buzzed” stage of his night. “The _concept_ is that you call someone up and jerk their leg. You know, for laughs. There’s no rulebook or anything, you’re only doin’ it wrong if it ain’t funny.”

Cas seems to mull it over for a moment, eyes focusing on the table, and Dean is pretty convinced that the angel’s taken the leg jerking thing a little too literally until Cas leans towards him almost conspiratorially and says slowly “I believe that it would be very enjoyable to ‘prank call’ Sam.”

His guffaw is timed dangerously close to making him spit out his beer, but Dean recovers from the surprise at Cas’s enthusiasm with minimum spluttering and sets down his bottle with a grin, reaching to clap the other man on the arm approvingly.

Cas is looking pretty damn pleased with himself, as if this is the most novel suggestion ever proposed on God’s green earth. Dean isn’t about to stomp on his newfound creativity now by informing him that maintaining some level of anonymity during at least part of the call is kind of the point, so instead he just hands him his cell-phone. “Cas, buddy, I think you’re onto something there,” Dean says, grinning so hard his teeth show. “Why don’t you call up Sammy while I get us some more drinks?” 

As Dean walks up to the bar he can hear Cas behind him, attempting to convince Sam that it was of vital importance that the youngest Winchester immediately ingest a bottle of ketchup if he hoped to dispel the angry spirit Cas was convinced was possessing him.

Oh yes, it’s going to be a good night.

\------------------------------------------------- 

By the time they’re staggering out of the bar, Dean’s definitely past pleasantly buzzed. And alright, so they’re not exactly _staggering_ but they’re definitely, uh… Walking impaired. 

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, wrapping an arm unabashedly around the other man’s shoulders and pulling him to his side, drunkenly appreciative of the warmth. Cas always feels like he’s running a bit hot, like an overheated laptop, and he kind of wonders if it’s for similar reasons; too many “programs” running at once or something, angel and human and something inbetween.

Cas slumps into the touch immediately, and now they’re walking pressed together which is definitely _not_ improving their ability to travel in a straight line. “Dean” he responds, and he feels really soft and nice and human at the moment. Which is… Well, yeah, it’s nice. If he’s not making a conscious effort to relax he tends to feel almost like a block of concrete that someone happened to wrap in skin, which now that Dean thinks about it is a really disturbing and serial-killerish mental image.

“Dean, I am questioning our ability to make it back to the motel,” Cas says, and they’ve made it about half a block in the course of five minutes because Dean keeps trying to squeeze them together a bit to hard and four legs trying to work in tandem is altogether too many at this point.

“Don’t you dare mojo us there” Dean warns, shooting a glare sideways and promptly tripping a bit on an uneven bit of sidewalk. He recovers quite gracefully, he thinks, and it only takes him something like a minute to regain his train of thought after various mental comparisons between himself and other graceful things. You know, swans. Ballerinas. Anything not moose-sized like Sam. 

“You know what that does to my stomach. And frankly I am more than prepared to throw up on your shoes in retaliation.” Castiel’s face crinkles into a frown, which Dean sniggers at. “Anyways, it’s not too far. Let’s enjoy the, uh- the journey. Considering this is your first time drinking properly and all.”

“Dean, I have imbibed alcohol before” Cas interrupts, as if offended. “I’m… I can drink more than you,” he finishes lamely. Dean rolls his eyes and prepares to explain that going on a weird pre-apocalypse binge doesn’t count because only the things he does with _Dean_ count, but then he realizes that is kind of a weirdly self-centered sentiment to have and an even weirder one to actually say out loud. 

Honestly he’s had enough to drink that he almost says it anyways, but something catches his eye and he pulls Cas to a stop. Or tries to, because y’know, that whole immovable-object-super-strength thing that Cas has going on kind of prevents itl and Cas keeps walking another few feet unaffected before he even realizes he’s lost Dean.

Finally he catches on and stops, turning to looks at Dean with confusion. “Cas,” Dean says, “it’s your first time actually drinking with someone right? So you missed out on a bunch of stuff people do together when they’re drunk?” Cas opens his mouth to repeat what they’d already been over, but Dean waves his hand dismissively and then points at a nearby tree. Then he realizes his hand’s an idiot and shifts his finger to point at the intended target, a stop sign. 

“See that?” He asks, and Cas follows his gaze slowly, staring at the sign like it’s the world’s greatest puzzle. Which is usually a look reserved for Dean, so for a moment he actually considers being jealous of a fucking _sign._ “Yes?” 

“ _That,_ ” Dean says with a grin, walking briskly over to the offending object, “needs to hang on our wall tonight.”

Cas follows him over to the sign, seeming to size it up, like it has some hidden mystical quality that he’s trying desperately to see, before turning to Dean with the most hilariously squinty eyes and a frown. “Why?”

“Because! It’s tradition! Every drunk teenage boy has stolen a street sign at some point.” Dean cries in frustration, waving his hands in the air ineffectually.

“Dean, I am not-“

“Yeah, I know genius. All the more reason to make up for your missed experiences.”

Castiel shrugs tightly, reaching up and promptly wrenching the street sign from the ground. Dean’s pretty sure the pole crinkles a bit in Cas’s grip like fucking aluminum foil, and for a moment he wonders if he still wants to get laid tonight when it’s now clear that drunk Cas is pretty bad at controlling his freakish strength. No, no, he definitely still wants to get laid.

Whereas he’d normally be clapping his hand to his face with a sigh right now, instead he’s just laughing like crazy. Again, Castiel looks vaguely pleased, like a puppy who’s not sure _why_ its owner is petting it, but doesn’t particularly care.

“Dude,” Dean manages to choke out between laughs, “You’re just supposed to take the, uh, sign-y part. Not the whole damn pole.”

Cas frowns again and stares at the sign, like it betrayed him. Finally he plucks the pole off, sticking it back in the ground as an afterthought, and turns back to Dean hopefully. Dean grins and nods, patting Cas’s shoulder. “Alright,” he says, “mission accomplished. Now let’s get back to the motel. I think I left some Wild Turkey there.”  
“Why is there undomesticated poultry in your room?”

“Cas-” Dean starts exasperatedly, only to see the sly grin spreading on the other man’s face.

Ah. More angel humor.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

When they finally make it to the motel, stop sign still in tow, Dean has somehow managed to bring Cas in on a rousing rendition of “Stairway to Heaven.” Which is really something considering the last time it was on in the Impala, Cas began explaining matter-of-factly the numerous ways it made no sense to have a literal stairway going to heaven, considering it wasn’t actually located in this dimension and blahblahblah. Dean had just pointedly turned the volume up.

Dean’s fumbling desperately with the motel key which he swears is possessed by an evil spirit that is making it continually face the wrong direction, and Cas is sagging into his side crooning along with him. He has to pause his attempts to gain entry into the room because they’re swaying together as they sing now and he has to close his eyes to really put some damn emotion into it.

“Oooooooh, it makes me wonderrrr-“ But this is when Sam pokes his head out from the next door over, ruining their awesome sing along, with narrowed eyes and the biggest damn pout this side of the Mississippi.

“Finding more ways to corrupt the angel, I see.” He says, looking disapprovingly at the dopey-eyed Cas leaning on Dean’s side.

“Dean,” Cas leans in to whisper- and really it’s not a whisper so much as a stage-whisper, so loud Sam can definitely hear it- “I believe Sam is making what you refer to as his ‘bitch-face.’”

Dean sniggers, resuming his quest to open the uncooperative door, and Sam shoots Cas a glare. “I’m not corrupting him, Sammy,” he says, finally succeeding and turning the knob. “I’m just showing him a good time.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and man Cas was right, there is a major case of bitch-face occurring at the moment, and Dean attributes this to the fact that he may have ribbed him a bit hard about his glorious flowing locks today. “If by a ‘good time’ you mean showing him your alcoholic ways and then encouraging him to call me up at eleven after I told you I was going to sleep early. He tried to tell me I was possessed by a ‘ketchup demon’ Dean. And then he described to me _in detail_ his…” Here Sam wrinkles his nose in disgust “ _Profound bond_ with you.”

Dean’s not sober enough to be embarrassed, so he just gives Sam his best shit-eating grin and winks. “What can I say, I’m pretty loveable.” Sam doesn’t respond, just narrows his eyes and slowly closes his door without breaking eye contact. Cas is humming from where they left off in the song, and damn if Dean doesn’t love him at that moment. He pulls him inside and shuts the door behind them, taking the stop sign from where Cas is cradling it in his arms and propping it in the windowsill. 

He’s about to grab the bottle of Wild Turkey when Cas poofs it into his own hands, and alright, that has _got_ to be a gross misuse of his angel powers or something.

Dean wonders what other ways they can grossly misuse his angel powers.

\---------------------------------------------------------

They’ve made it to the couch at some point and the light is off, and they are currently staring at the flickering TV. Dr. Sexy MD is in the process of curing a lady doctor’s grief over losing a patient by administering to her with his penis. Alright, so that’s not exactly what’s happening, but… Well, yeah, it kind of is actually. 

Damn, Dean loves this show.

Cas is slumped next to him, leg pressed warmly against his own, and Dean’s really appreciative of how cool it is to see Cas so relaxed like this, sitting still and lax like an actual human being.

Nudging the long-since emptied bottle of Wild Turkey aside with his foot, (and Dean’s alcohol addled mind is momentarily alarmed until he remembers that, hello, angels have an incredible level of alcohol tolerance,) he presses closer to Cas, arm sliding around his the other man’s shoulders easily. 

Cas sighs warmly and leans into the crook of his arm, fucking nuzzling at his neck. Drunk Cas is way more affectionate, and drunk Dean is honestly kind of loving it. “Dean,” Cas begins, attempting to wrap an arm around him but apparently lacking the will-power to hold it up. Instead it drops down to rest on Dean’s thigh, which doesn’t really bother either of them. Dean just kind of attempts to look down his nose at the still nuzzling Cas, but gives up when his vision blurs in the process. “I would like to do what the TV people are doing.”

A quick glance to the TV confirms that, yes, the “TV people” are indeed having sex, and Dean isn’t about to accidentally assent to open heart surgery or something. 

“Yeah, I definitely agree” he says with a grin, turning back to Cas and accidentally bumping their noses together. Cas is now looking up at him appraisingly, and even with the alcohol he’s perfectly capable of noting how hot it is when Cas just stares at him like that, crisp blue eyes focused on nothing but Dean.

That’s enough for Cas, apparently, because now he’s kissing him sloppily and Dean is pretty quick to return the favor, turning into it and raising his other arm to grab clumsily at Cas’s waist.

As nice as it feels Dean has to pull away to gulp in a breath, because Cas always seems to forget that those are a bit more necessary for him than they are for the angel. Dean stands, grabbing at Cas’s hand, (missing at first but damn it, he gets it on the second try,) and tugs at him. Cas follows with a look that is embarrassingly close to adoration, allowing himself to be pulled up and led over to the bed, which they both topple onto unceremoniously as Dean shoves his hand into Cas’s hair and the other down to the front of his pants.

They’re kind of rolling around on the bedspread a lot, and there’s a lot more spit involved in their kisses than usual, but all that Dean can register is how awesome Cas smells, this weird mix of pine needles and the impala, and yeah, definitely copious amounts of alcohol. The taste of Cas’s lips definitely confirms the alcohol part.

“Dean” Cas moans, and really he’s moaning quite a bit more than usual. Very loud, sexy moans that have Dean pretty damn hard in the pants that Cas’s hands are currently working to divest him of. “Want you.”

“Want you too, baby,” he growls, gripping at Cas’s thick dark mess of hair and pulling him into another kiss, and their mouths kind of slide off of each other and miss at first, but at the moment all Dean can register is the hot prickle of Cas’s stubble against him and the annoying amount of layers still separating their skin. Cas apparently is thinking along the same lines and gives up on unbuttoning his jeans, because in the blink of an eye they’re both completely naked. Rather than questioning just where the hell Cas sent his lucky flannel shirt, Dean arches into the warm body that is now pressing heavily into his, and lets out a few moans of his own.

Now, considering his current level of coordination (read: none,) it would probably be easiest at this point to just jerk them both off and collapse into sleep. But Dean decides that, no, tonight is the night where he _really_ tops his past performances and shares with Cas the most mind-blowing sex possible, so instead he rolls over (nearly falling off of the bed,) to reach down to his duffle and fumble through it for lube. Which, after tossing out a bunch of clothes and a few guns, he manages to find. He rolls back to face Cas, who… Well, he looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

Oh no, Dean is not letting that happen. Nuh-uh. This is… He’s going to show that damn angel just how much he loves him. So what if he hasn’t said those words out loud, because clearly this is the way to show someone, right? It seems like the emotionally repressed Dean Winchester way of doing it, anyhow. 

More importantly, seeing Cas so sleepy is somehow offensive, and Dean really _really_ feels a need to prove how great at sex he is. So he pops the cap off of the lube and grins, swaying only slightly as he crawls back to where Cas stares up at him. “Buckle up, feather boy,” he says, attempting a wink, and really the whole thing seems perfectly cool and seductive at the time. “You’re in for a hell of a ride. I mean, I am. Wait, we both are.”

Cas just rolls his eyes and drags Dean down into another kiss, swallowing his grunt of surprise.

\------------------------------------------

It’s four in the morning and Sam is lying in a shitty motel bed, decidedly awake, staring at the ceiling with so much fury that he has developed a pretty dire headache. The absolutely obscene sounds from next door have been going on for about fifteen minutes, and the knowledge that it’s his brother and an angel making all of the noise does nothing to ease his migraine.

He squeezes his eyes shut with determination and rolls over as another loud moan drifts through the plaster, and wow, he really, _really_ did not need to know what Cas’s moans sounded like. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of the… _Thing_ between his brother and Cas, but Dean had always been decent enough before to keep it quiet. When they had motel rooms directly next to each other, at the very least. If he could only move his bed to the other side of the room it might be fine, since in their infinite wisdom the owners had for some reason apparently placed the beds of both rooms against the same paper-thin wall, but the bed _also_ happened to be bolted to the floor. As if someone would try to steal a shitty, possibly disease covered, motel bed. 

The almost-apocalypse, being brought back without a soul, losing Dean to purgatory, and now this? Sam was very much beginning to question his bad luck.

If he has to hear a gasped “Dean” or a responding grunt of “Cas” one more time, he swears to god he will jump in the Impala right now, drive the thirty miles to the next town, and book another fucking room in another fucking motel.

He’s about to give up and do just that when the moans and grunts drift to a blessed halt. Considering he never heard their pleasure reach it’s- ugh, it’s “crescendo,” Sam is momentarily confused, and can’t help but raise his head slightly from the annoyingly lumpy pillow, brow furrowed as he attempts for the first time that night to listen rather than tune everything out.

There’s a muffled _“… Cas?”_ and a bit of creaking. _“Hey, wake up! You can’t just pass out when we’re-“_ The next few words are indistinguishable. Sam’s scowl is slowly turning into a grin. There’s a long pause, which Sam figures means that Dean has given up and collapsed himself. 

The last thing he hears is a dejected mumble that sounds suspiciously like “ ‘m good at sex,” and then nothing. Beautiful, peaceful, nothing. 

Sam pulls the blanket snuggly to his chin and closes his eyes. Looks like he won’t have to jack his brother’s Impala after all.


End file.
